


A. Journal

by allthehearteyes



Series: Unspoken [1]
Category: Animal Kingdom (TV), Animal Kingdom - Fandom
Genre: Anger, Angst, Longing, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 08:45:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15968834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthehearteyes/pseuds/allthehearteyes
Summary: ****UPDATE: I re-worked this tricksy beast.  I think it flows better now.  Please try again.****Deran is in his early 20’s, locked up for stealing a car. He’s away from Adrian. He’s alone. He’s angry.





	A. Journal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iresposts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iresposts/gifts).



> Eh, so I was wrong. There was more to write. Who knew?
> 
> This fic is atypical. This is based off a piece that's much softer, so I had to adjust it to fit A&D. We'll see how it lands. 
> 
> Thanks Iresposts for pushing me to write something in a different way.
> 
> ~~find me on Tumblr (same username)~~

Deran’s locked up after getting caught boosting a car. He’s angry and alone, and misses Adrian like crazy. No visitors, except family. _Fuck the family!_ Few letters in, fewer letters out.

He attends mandatory therapy groups. He wants to reach out to Adrian but he doesn’t know how to write the words. It’s the second week he's locked away. He sits down and attempts what the staff ask.

 He scratches with pen to the paper:

_This is dumb as shit! They say I have to write shit down. Fuck them! Motherfuckers! I hate this place!!!_

_The words I’m writing are… Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. STUPID! About me, but... FUCK!!!!! For you? I guess? JESUS! FUCK ME! I don’t know that if the words were for me - I’d continue… To write them… FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK._

Deran is freaked out by what he wrote and why he wrote it.  _What in the actual fuck!!! FUCK! This is fucking dumb!_

He rips out the page, balls it up, and throws it in the trashcan.

 

A few more weeks go by. Deran’s been in several fights and has some cuts and bruises to show for it, but he’s never ended up in the infirmary like those others. The inmates learn quickly not to fuck with him.

He attends art therapy a couple of times a week. It’s kind of stupid. It’s better than talking he guesses. The staff keep pushing him to journal. _Fucking journaling, how stupid! Fuck them. I don’t need this. Assholes._

He thinks back on what the art bitch had said to him about crumpling paper to make a point.

Deran tries to write:

_I fucking hate this!_

_I might crumple the paper then… FUCK! Flatten it before I write… I WANT TO HIT SOMETHING! So the bumps and ridges would be? FUCKED UP! A… part of the journey…as I…work things out? I WANT TO KICK THE SHIT OUT OF SOMEONE._

Deran has no idea why he's writing this stuff.  _Oh God! Fucking weird! Jesus! What is wrong with me?!_

He quickly tears out the page and throws it in the trash.

 

He does more art therapy, takes more bullshit from the lady who runs the group. _What an idiot._ She says something about paints. Messing with the words? Whatever.

He tries to journal again:

_Stupid shit._

_I might take the…stupid words I wrote. Fucking paint over them…with those paints - watercolors…or whatever? Fucking…watch the water and the colors…smear into the words? SHIT. M...Making it something else. Maybe. Probably. A mess. WHO CARES??? NO ONE!!!!!!!!!!!! I’M A MESS!!!!!_

Deran is struggling to understand what happens when he writes. _FUUUCK!_

He scribbles all over the page before throwing it in the trash.

 

More weeks go by. More dumb art therapy. Abby, the art therapist, talks about collages. The layers or some shit. Weird glue.

Again, Deran tries to journal:

 _Dear Adr--_  

[He stops and scribbles out the name.]  

 _Adrian,_  

[He scratches the page until it almost rips.]

_I might build a collage. Maybe. Around or on top of my words. WORDS? It might…be…be how I feel. FEEL? FEEL ABOUT WHAT? I’M PRETTY PISSED RIGHT NOW! In that moment. WHAT? What I hope to feel…someday? The glue…would be too sticky. Dry too fast. ???????_

Deran is trying, but he still doesn't get what's going on with him. _Dumb!_

He scribbles over most of the page and flings the journal away.

 

A couple of months go by. Abby has them tear up paper to show how thoughts and feelings can look, feel in their hands. It seems really fucking dumb.

Deran journals:

_Hey man,_

_I might – rip the paper. R-I- P, R-I-P, R-I-P. Rip the words right the fuck up. Rip them into long strips or tiny pieces. Make…confetti. Squeeze it. In my hands before watching it fall into the trash._

What happens when he writes seems less awkward for him now.  _Weird._

Deran rolls his eyes and shuts the journal.

 

Time continues to go by and Deran continues to attend art therapy. It isn’t mandatory anymore, but Abby seems okay.

He continues to journal:

_Hey,_

_I might use those oil pastel stick – things - to smear…to mess up the words. Then…use a hard edge…to scrape over top the color. Leave - leaving behind…a design or a picture. Scratched with my thoughts._

Deran's not surprised anymore by the weirdness that he writes.  _Whatever_.

He shakes his head and closes the journal.

 

He journals again:

_A,_

_I might fold the paper - make creases across and through – through my words. Make patterns that have no reason. Just lines…I guess._

Deran considers what he wrote.  _I guess I would._

He looks at the page, staring at it and blinking a few times. 

He closes the journal.

 

It finally gets to the week of his release.

He’s journaling:

_Adrian,_

_I don’t think I’d hold onto my words or keep them. Not for me, anyway. Eventually I would - get over it, them. Let them go - say goodbye. I think. Probably into the trash. Never to be seen again. Until - until the next time. When the thoughts/feelings come back - in a new way. That’s what might happen if the words were never… If they were never meant to be seen…by anyone but me. But - that’s, that’s not what this is. Right now._

Deran's heart starts to beat faster as he realizes what he wrote.  _What if he did see this?_

He quickly turns the page and continues to write.

_Right now, I write for…you. For you to see me. To read me...for some unknown reason. I don’t know why._

Deran isn't sure what to think now. _What does this mean?!_

He scowls, cautiously looks around, and casually wipes his wet eyes.  Deran closes the journal and squeezes it in his hands.

~~

He walks out of the facility. Time served. He’s got his bag of stuff and a handful of art they shoved at him as he was leaving.  _Fuckers_.

He looks up and his eyes go wide. _Adrian! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!!_

Adrian's there to pick him up. It was supposed to be Craig! _Asshole!_

Adrian smiles and gives a slight wave. _Shit. He looks fucking amazing!_

Deran’s heart is racing. Concerned Adrian will see _him_ , and with all the art shit in his hands, he quickly looks for a trash can. Nothing. _Fuck!_ He hastily shoves the art into his bag. Next to _his_ A. Journal.

No indication he’s happy to see Adrian, he lifts his hand and snorts, “Hey man! You look like shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I may have a couple more in me...with the poetry bits. We shall see.


End file.
